On Boredom[1]

Bored nigh onto death, the dreamer broods on the other side of an opaque veil, wondering what experiences it harbors and ponders whether any experience can satiate the illusive delusions that pervade the waking world.

The dreamer remembers samsara, the viscous river of life, its twisting streams of less than tangible deceptions, intricate trappings worn or aspired to or envied but which in enlightened instants are sometimes disdained.

The dreamer wonders whether boredom has brought release but doesn’t think so, certain in some manner unforeseen that Nirvana comes in other shades grey, and ponders the incongruity that much striving remains before strife’s end.